Orienteering - the other way

This is yours truly the Reluctant Housewife and her beautiful friend Salima, on the eve of our belly-dancing debut. I wouldn't have said that black velvet is exactly the right material to wear in 30° heat, but it was that or purple chiffon. Anyway, the hour had finally come to display our skills in semi-public. Women of all ages, shapes and sizes, attired in every colour of the rainbow, were gathered in an stuffy upstairs dance studio to commune with each other and celebrate the art of belly-dancing. I sound like I ate the brochure for tea, don't I, but 'twas really so. My plan only to dance our rehearsed piece fell flat right at the beginning, when we were rallied together and told to join hands. In an enormous circle we swayed this way and the other, then into the middle and out again. I felt like I was doing a kind of oriental hokey-cokey. Being passionately against audience participation I was heartily relieved when the music stopped - I had to fight for a chair - and some of the 'good' ones took to the floor. Eventually our time came, and I managed not to (a) laugh (b) trip over and (c) turn the wrong way. All in all, not too bad. It only went a bit pear-shaped when we had to dance with a veil.  It looked so simple when the pros did it.  You had to sort of swish the veil around your head really quickly and back in front of you, remembering all the time to look mysterious and sensual.  I, of course, managed to wrap the veil over my face - luckily it was transparent - couldn't get the damn thing off in time. So I must have looked pretty mysterious. Not sure about the sensual, though. Gaia advised me not to post the above pictures on Facebook - "too revealing", she said, and "you never know who's looking". Funny - exactly my words to her about her black ribbed belt, sorry, I mean mini-skirt. Anyway, the whole evening was an inspiration, and ever since I have been clandestinely practising my new moves. As most people already think me somewhat strange, they won't bat an eyelid at work when I shimmy my way to the photocopier or squeeze in a few hip figure-of-eights while waiting signing for a delivery. 

A spot called Frank - and other delights

Here I am again, on a grey, rainy Monday, when the English football team have once more failed to impress. Nothing new there, then. Titus, bored by the lack of action during the game, turned his attention to his darling mother's face. Mummy, you've got a spot growing, he told me. I know, I answered, through gritted teeth.  It is my pet spot. I've had it the last twenty years.  Every couple of months it rears its ugly head anew, ruins my complexion for the best part of a week, I muck about with it ineffectually until it subsides again, biding its time. Titus decided to give my spot a name.  Frank. I hadn't the energy to argue. I felt Frank literally glowing with pride, and stuck some ancient nappy-rash cream on it - sorry, him - to keep him down.

Meanwhile, CG came home from work today with a curious set of apparatus under his arm.  Encased in a snazzy blue bag. I swear he oozed excitement when he told me that this was a snore-monitor. Pretending it was a real drag, he told me that he has to wear this contraption from 10 pm tonight (actually, in 3 minutes, I realize in horror) until 6 am tomorrow morning. Various sensors will supposedly note his equally varied nocturnal noises and breathing disturbances. He must surrender the recording tomorrow morning for analysis. Thereafter, a sleep expert will tell him what we both already know, namely that he makes weird noises in the night. I don't care, because I have already found a solution - ear plugs. But I didn't like to tell him that I've been sleeping like a baby since this discovery, as it was me who forced him to get medical help in the first place. He's just popped his head round the door to remind me that it's "nearly time" - I can hardly wait. I bet neither of us gets a wink of sleep.

My last comment has to be on national anthems. I only really like four - GB (naturally), France, Germany and the USA. When you watch international championships of any kind, you get a taste of other, weirder anthems. Not once have I heard one that I could hum again the next day. I truly believe that the newer the country, the more complex and long the national anthem is. Take the Ukrainian one, for example.  It is nearly a whole opera. And nobody knew the words, least of all the president.

The Fly

Leaning ever more towards the Buddhist way of life, I have been doing my best not to kill flies recently. This may sound nothing to you, but I can't stand them. Usually, dusting off the fly swat and making sure it is always to hand are key components of my getting-ready-for-summer routine. So today, when one really, really persistent fly just would not leave me alone, I tried to flick it away. I was cooking, and had no free hands, and had to resort to tossing my head like an impatient horse, and contorting my body in a weird dance. Anything to not feel its prickly little feet on my skin and then lose my temper and kill it. But the fly went too far and settled on the end of my nose. A particularly violent toss of the head and I lost my grip on the blue glass bowl in my hand, which fell to the floor and smashed into a thousand smithereens.  I swore - a lot. As I wearily swept up all the bits, the fly stayed cautiously on the ceiling. I am sure it was laughing at me. Anyone watching me from outside would certainly have been splitting their sides.

With horror I realized that I didn't write one single blog the whole month of May. I apologize to those of you who actually like reading it. Especially to those people in the far-flung corners of the world who, for some obtuse reason, seem particularly fond of my meanderings. I know they read it, as Google kindly lets me know.  And we are all aware of how Google likes to share personal information, are we not? Speaking of which, I think I have finally persuaded my mother - erstwhile computer-phobe - to join Facebook. Mark Zuckerberg should pay me, for she is not the first person I have enticed into his kingdom. And probably won't be the last. Anyway, it is not without pride that I announce this to you, as she has insisted for years that wild horses wouldn't drag her there.

CG is about to return from a jolly jape in Macedonia. I told him not to bother bringing me a souvenir this time. I can find better things in the village shop, and believe me, I don't say that often. No, it will suffice to see his fluffy face again and hear his prognoses of long-term doom and damnation. And maybe he can kill the flies, which keep my conscience and our supply of crockery intact.